Bigger Picture Moments: On turning 30

I thought it would be harder

this birthday

to say goodbye to my twenties

and enter 30.

But I'm ready.

Ready to bid farewell to a decade that began

like a wild ride on an enormous ocean wave

and one that's ending with toes dipped into high tide

settled onto the stable ground of Faith

rather than the tumultuousness sea of self.

These past ten years have been all about realizing that

I am not the ends to all means.

That the Earth spins for more than just me.

That self is in competition with Spirit.

That there's more to me than just me.

I count.

One by one I number the years,

and I see the blessings unfold

from messes, sea glass polished shiny by waves.

I see grace swell up and carry me onto shore and

love salve the wind and sun burnt onto my weathered skin.

This birthday

there's no dread

or twinges of sadness

just gratitude for the days I've known

and praise for the ones still spread out ahead.

Link at Melissa's!

    

Everyday Life: So We Eat Cake

He's looking out the floor-length glass windows at tracks as a commuter train sleekly brakes to a halt and then swooshes off toward the city, as if to say that a quick exchange of passengers was merely just a blip in its day.

And I guess that's why we are here, eating lunch together just the two of us, though I don't completely know it until the moment the train jets into the distance, E's small hands pressed against the glass, his blue eyes still glued to the end car that's almost out of sight -- I don't want to be that train.

That's been my whole week, flying off from one destination to the next, slowing only enough to stop for quick pick ups and drop offs and pauses, kisses exchanged deftly before the engine again revs and roars.

But not today.

Not today especially.

He'll be newly three just before bedtime, and I want to linger in two for just a little while longer.

We wander back to our table in the quiet cafe, and soon we are talking about our lunch as we indulge.

There are meetings and there is work looming in the near hours, and I want to throw my phone with its clock and schedule across the room to shatter into a thousand pieces but instead just tuck it away into the depths of my shoulder bag telling myself that truly this schedule won't last long. And truly, we will find ourselves back in the beautiful grooves of tracks that run long, slow freight cars.

I sing happy birthday a few times to his delighted ears and he tells me about light sabers and birthdays in broken sentences while I just eat him up.

I can't resist capturing him still in a few photos, and he looks at me and commands through giggles "no more peetures, mom!"

I sense that it's time to pack up our lunch date and head to the next destination.

But he says "birfday cake on E's birfday?"

There are a dozen reasons not to.

And then there's him.

So we meander up to the counter, pick the perfect slice of lemon and almond polenta cake and return to our seats.

A fork in his hand, he takes a big bite and then scoops one for me.

"You too, mom?"



There are dozens of reasons not to {including not having had anything with more than a hint of sugar here and there for months}.

And then there's him.

So we eat cake

together

train stalled out on the tracks, amid the horns honking, people waiting, giving pause to our runs as the world rushes by around us

and we are better for it.

Everyday Life: Carry You

It seems like I don't carry you much any more.

At freshly five, you are long and lanky and beyond a comfortable hip seat.

So I settle for snuggling you to sleep. Tonight, I practically have to beg you to let me be the one to see you off to your dreams, but you finally oblige.

And I breathe gratitude at having these minutes.

We lay in the dark, wrapped tight beneath blankets shielding our skin from cool of night-time lake air.

We whisper back and forth, and I tell you the story of five years ago today.

How we waited long and we waited patient for you to come. {"How long, mom?" Nine whole months!}

How I labored hours and then days. {"Did you eat? Did you sleep?" Not really.}

How I pushed you out of my belly. {"How!?" With strong muscles.}

And how all you wanted to do was sleep in my arms and nurse, which was good

because that's exactly all I wanted to do, too -- exhaustion set deep in my body, we both faded in and out of sleep for five glorious hours that first night.

You smile, and I remember the you from five years ago, tiny and snuggled against my chest, legs still shaking from the shear labor of your entrance.

We are still in thought, still in bed, snuggling

and I linger in the very effort, remembering the endurance,

how my muscles worked long

and hard

and well

to grow you,

carry you,

deliver you into arms that spent hours cradling and rocking your small self.

How these muscles fatigued and pushed beyond what I thought I could muster.

How I was so much stronger than I knew.

And how I didn't even have a clue that that would be the easy part.

That carrying you in belly and in arms and bearing down and bringing forth your life was only training for the muscle that would bear the real load.



How I couldn't have known that my heart would need all the training in strength it could build to wrap you up in this weight of heavy love and carry you long beyond what my arms ever could. Linking with The MOB society's Let's Hear it for the Boys.

Thinking, That's All: At 29

When I was younger I most looked forward to the company who would come celebrate my birthday.

And truly the people who come around us in these times of joy and celebration are gifts. 

Fittingly, as God always gives, a gift of wisdom and experience and thought came at just the right time wrapped in thoughtful, careful words and packaged in a friend who shared his experience with sequoia trees.

He explained how sequoias -- great towering trees that are hundreds of years old and a few hundred feet tall -- best grow their rings, their height, their strength only after forest fires clear out other trees and brush that choke out the small sequoia seedlings. 

Photo credit: Red321

During the fires, hot air rockets up to the tops of the tree canopy, drying the cones allowing them to open and release their seeds. 

Without the fires, the seedlings don't stand much of a chance of adding more rings to their trunks, of becoming these strong, tall, majestic, mature trees. 

At 29, I'm learning to be thankful for the first ... and for the intricacies that make up the rings that mark another year of life and everything that made up this ring of 28.

The joy.

The hurt.

The grief.

The trials.

The patience.

The giggles.

The beauty.

The hands of friendship extended.

The steadfast love of a husband.

Because through these intricacies, God has mercifully drawn me closer to Him, has shown me that his burden is light and His yoke is easy and has held me in His arms.

I grow. 

Not how I expected, but, nonetheless, there is another ring of growth marking another year.

And I am thankful for them and the ones this year will surely bring, too. 

Everyday Life: Big Baby

We still lovingly call him Big Baby {because Big Baby of Toy Story 3 is very much his twinsie}.

But truth be told, there really hasn't been anything baby about him for months.

His gait is much more of a steady-on-my-own-feet toddle, completely void of wobbly, unsure steps.

His banter is complex, though he still speaks a language we have yet to understand.

His play mirrors his four-year-old brothers, as he zooms cars along the amber wooden hallways and builds skyscraper towers out of bright Duplos atop of living room carpet.

Today brings E's second birthday, and with it the realization that all the lingering pieces of his sweet babyness have completely faded into the curiosity, silliness and intensity of toddlerhood laced with affectionate kisses and strong-arm hugs.



I won't lie -- I squeeze tightly the memory of his wide blue eyes and his easy, open-mouth, gummy smiles of days passed, long passed. I am his mother after all, and mothers do well at remembering small babes pressed gently against the skin stretched across our hearts.

But, also, I celebrate the emergence of who he is



the bigness of his heart worn on his two-year-old sleeve when he hugs my neck so so tight or runs to his daddy full force only to land on his face lips first, intent on smothering him with kisses.

the infectious belly laugh that comes so easily as he runs wildly around the house with his older brother

the intensity of his determination while scaling furniture as though it were mountainous cliffs waiting to be conquered and spiked with a flag of triumph

the wildness of his little boy heart exploding with zeal and curiosity for all things new.

And I remember -- I wrap my tender mommy heart in the blanket-bandages of comfort as I embrace the marking of another year passed since he came rushing into our arms*, holding ever true to his style of his entrance by saying aloud that he was created to morph from a small wild heart embed with passion and fearlessness and love to a large one intended to forge into a world who needs exactly who he's growing to be.



Happy second birthday, my blue-eyed boy. May the One who knit you together in my womb continue to weave together the boy you're becoming.

{E was born at home after one wildly fast and unexpected evening of labor. Here's his homebirth story.}